Coffee heat rising

Glenn Gunnells

Glorioski!

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What a GORGEOUS morning!!!  High, thin clouds gently floating overhead. The blue sky peering through them. And splendidly temperate, inviting you to park yourself on the back porch, crunch a cookie, and guzzle black coffee.

Truth to tell, for all its eccentricities Arizona really IS a splendid place to live. Don’t know how my father found out about Sun City, but somehow he did…and forthwith he and my mother retired to those stodgy environs.

They hadn’t been there more than a year or two when a monster recession hit. My father, who had invested all his savings in the stock market, lost his proverbial shirt.

So, he had to pack up and go back to sea, the poor guy. Shipped out as first mate for a company that ran oil tankers out of southern California.

In the interim, my mother sat in front of the TV and smoked…and smoked…and smoked…and smoked herself into a fine case of cancer.

It didn’t make itself obvious until after he had swung his second retirement, and to his infinite delight had quit his job (again!) and gone back to Sun City to spend what he expected to be the rest of his years with the Love of His Life.

Staunch right-wingers, neither of them believed any of the maunderings that came out of the federal government. So, they were kinda blindsided when my mother’s non-stop smoking habit did indeed lead to an inoperable case of cancer, just as Big Brother said it would. As she died horribly, he never left her bedside, but took care of her, the house, the car, the shopping, the cooking, the finances…and the doctoring.

After she died, he couldn’t bear to stay in the place they’d dreamed would be their retirement haven and happy home. So he sold it and moved to an old-folkerie in Phoenix. And…a sad story attaches to that….

In short, though: that she killed herself with cancer sticks meant that she killed any chance for a contented retirement for him. If I’d been him, I’d have taken a long leap off the side of the Golden Gate Bridge. But…he was made of stronger stuff than I am.

He was an exceptionally handsome man…and the instant he walked into the old-folkerie’s dining room, he was, shall we say, noticed.

Forthwith, one of the inmates ambushed him. He was flattered — this was a guy who never looked twice at any woman other than his wife. That meeting led to an exceptionally unhappy marriage — one he refused to dissolve because he imagined “she’ll get all my money.”

And also because he had a daughter who was too stupid and too naive to say “But Daddy: your son-in-law is one of the most powerful lawyers in the Southwest. She’s not gonna get all your precious money!”

So…he was stupid and I was remiss and the new wife was a witch. Between the three of us, we concocted a fine unhappy passage through the end of his life.

If there’s anything to learn from that escapade, it’s…what?

When you experience a major life change (such as the death of a spouse), don’t make any sudden moves. 

If he’d waited just six months before jumping into marital “bliss” with the Dragon Lady, he no doubt would never have married her. He would still be lonely, but he would not have been freaking miserable.

When you plan ahead for the major passages of your life — retirement, for example, or marriage, or the rearing of children — think of and plan for ALL the contingencies. Not just the things you imagine will happen or hope will happen. But for the catastrophes and the fu*k-ups, too.

If money or major commitments are part of a “major passage” of your life, consult a lawyer and a financial advisor before jumping into anything.

******
arrrrghhhh!!!

Here’s the Cleaning Lady from Heaven, at the front door. It’s MUCH later in the morning than I imagined!!  LOL! I thought it was about 9 a.m.

Uhhhm…welllll… No. It’s damn near 11:30! She’s already cleaned the WonderAccountants’ house, straight across the street. And now here she is, ready to work her magic on the Funny Farm.

Seriously: this lady is about the most wonderful human being you could ever have working for you. If I ever took it into my feeble little mind to start a cleaning service (what, me? work???), she would be the one I’d hire as its manager.

Well…let’s wrap this up… ONWARD!

BANG! BANG!! BANG-A-DA-BANG!!!

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Eight-thirty of a New’s Eve! And everyone within (and beyond) earshot is celebrating: BANG! BANG!! BANGA-DA-BANG!!! 

Amazingly, Ruby the Corgi is taking it all in…very relaxed stride. Really: I would have expected her to be all nervous and jumpy and spooked.

But nay! She seems to realize all that racket is coming from somewhere else: somewhere a fair distance from the Funny Farm. Not only is she NOT spooked, just now she’s flopped on the foot of the bed, loafing!

How weird is that, I hafta ask you?

LOL! This evening the brain-pan filled with memories of a very weird experience...one I never really have been able to make much sense of.

My father, you need to understand first-off, was a very macho sort of guy. Anything that smacked of “queer” would set off his rage genes. He hated queers (so he said), and would launch into paroxysms of disgust on the subject if given half a chance.

Sooooo….  It struck me as VERY weird when one time in a balmy Arizona season, he took it into his head to gather a bunch of Boy Scouts to go out on the desert and shoot at stuff. Target shooting.

Not too weird, until you learned that — hang onto your hat — he proposed to stay out there overnight with the passel of teenaged boys. All of them ejaculatedly revved up by shooting guns into the night air.

Yeah.

Whaaaaa???????

To my astonishment, my mother said nothing to try to derail this plan. Probably, I imagine, because she couldn’t think of anything…or maybe she just didn’t want to get into a quarrel with him.

So he rounds up a troop of senior Boy Scouts, and off they go into the desert night.

No other adults with them: just my father and a half-dozen or so teenage boys.

Uhhmmm…..

Since I wished to continue living, I, too, said nothing about this…but thought any number of unmentionable thoughts.

Well. OK….

Off they went, into the desert and the dark. Far as I know, nothing much transpired — or if it did, you may sure none of them mentioned it.  They drove off, set up camp somewhere, and spent the night shooting their bang-bangs and sittin’ around the campfire.

You understand: my father wasn’t given to that kind of thing. By and large, he didn’t much like kids — these were not kids, though, but teenagers. And this was the ONLY time in my life that I’d ever heard of him or seen him go camping. Not that he couldn’t: he grew up out in the Texas boondocks. But he didn’t subject me or my mother to it.

So…when I hear the BANG BANG BANG of fireworks or firearms echoing through the night, that’s what I think of: my father out on the desert with a passel of teenage boys, shooting off their guns into the dark.

Or whatever.

And that makes these firework-accented holidays feel…weird, to me. Very, very weird. 

***** GODAMMIT!*****

Now we’ve got idiots out there shooting off fireworks over the tops of the palm trees.

I’ll have to go out there and keep an eye to be sure the damn trees don’t catch fire.

WHY ARE WE SURROUNDED BY MORONS?

She Would’ve Loved….

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Oh, my goodness! How my mother would have loved this adorable little corgi. Ruby is…

…hopelessly cute(!!)
…sweeter than candy
…doggily persuasive
…richly funny

What a charmer. She surely would have seduced my mother within minutes of their meeting. And they would have been pals for life.

Or at least, for rest of my mother’s life.

She’s long-gone now. My father remarried; then he died in misery. The new wife was merrily ejected from my life…she’d be about 181 by now, I imagine, if she were still living.

My mother was murdered by the tobacco peddlers.

Yeah. If you have a kid…or anyone you care about or who cares about you…don’t get seduced into smoking. It truly is a murderous custom.

She deserved to see her grandson. She deserved to see the cuteness that is the corgi. She deserved to live out her husband’s life. But no. She smoked herself to death, and so never saw any of those things…or any of the other beautiful things that should have graced her later life.

Don’t let them kill you, friends!

But do get a corgi!!!! 😀  Everyone should have a corgi. Right?

Understatement of the Century

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Well, it isn’t at all funny (about money or about anything else), but truth to tell, the first thought that entered my mind after this morning’s dawn flood of undisciplined thoughts was “My father’s marrying That Witch after my mother died must have been an unholy disappointment for him.”

Second thought: “Disappointment? What are you smoking?? It was a horror show. A horror show of the wildest, most terrifying character.”

The poor man. 

He didn’t understand: He could not replace my mother after she smoked herself to death.

A woman is not just a woman
A wife is not just a wife.
The love of your life is not a replicable quantity.

But forgodsake, a harridan surely is a harridan.

Marrying that horrid creature after my mother died and he moved himself to the old-folkerie did one thing for him: it brought him several years of utter misery.

Lonely as he might have been without his wife — his real wife, shall we say — he would have been a hundred times better off without the harridan from Hell who pounced him the minute he walked into the senior citizens’ community where he moved after my mother passed.

Some things are worse than the worst thing you can imagine….

My Father’s Little Orphan Annie

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In effect, my mother was my father’s Little Orphan Annie: an abandoned child with no resources and no future.

A large part of my mother’s life, certainly during her upbringing, was fukkin’ gawdawful. My father came along and rescued her from fukkin’ gawdawful.

His answer to fukkin’ gawdawful was marriage and an escape overseas, to a drudging life in Saudi Arabia’s American oil port, Ras Tanura.

After ten years in that hellish place, they decamped to the San Francisco Bay Area, where my father, an oil tanker captain and navigator, shipped out of the East Bay and my mother and I occupied a series of (quite nice!) apartments in the City and then in Long Beach, in Southern California. Eventually he retired and they decamped again, this time to Arizona.

They sent me to college here. My father worked until he could finally see his way clear to retiring, and the two of them figured to spend the rest of their lives in Sun City, an exceptionally bland retirement community on the west side of Phoenix.

That lasted a couple of years, until a major recession struck and my father had to go back to sea.

Horrible! I can’t even imagine how depressing that must have been — for both of them, but certainly for him. Poor man!

Another few years passed and he contrived to quit the hated job, once and for all. By then I was about through college; moving on to a job in a law firm, and very happy to no longer be living in dreary Sun City.

I went on to marry one of the lawyers (that’s what young women were supposed to do, right? Land someone to support them for the rest of their lives…)

Meanwhile, my mother sat crocheting in front of the TV set and smoked. And smoked. And smoked. And smoked. And eventually succeeded in bringing on a cancer that, predictably enough, killed her.

***

Honest to gawd!  Both of them — my father and my mother — were right-wing crazies, the sort who thought anything they disagreed with that appeared in the news was just bat-brained propaganda from Big Brother.

Yes, that really WAS what they thought.

Unfortunately, Big Brother had the story right this time. And so, not surprisingly, this time my mother puffed herself into the grave.

Okay: so he’s stuck out in the middle of nowhere, on the west side of the Valley. She’s done; he’s bereft.

Now he sells the Sun City house and buys into an old-folkerie, a place called Orangewood. Having lived in institutional settings all his adult life, he thought it was just grand. My mother had refused to go there, and so he’d had to wait until she died to get rid of the shack and install himself in the landlocked version of a ship.

Ugh! I’d have died if I’d had to live there. He liked it, though. I guess to him it must have felt like home. Because, after all, he had lived on ships — institutions — since he was 17 years old.

And I do wonder: did he like it? Was it life on the Bounding Main reincarnated? Or was it what he had envisioned as the ideal retirement?

The latter is my guess — never having been able to read his mind.

He was a handsome man, by any measure. And so the minute he moved into the old-folkerie and walked into the dining hall, a feeding frenzy ensued.

Since he was, as far as I can tell, a staidly loyal married man, it hadn’t yet occurred to him that he was the Catch of a Lifetime…or so it would seem to all the agèd ladies at the old folks’ home.

Within weeks he was snared.

So — again, as far as I can tell — he must have felt he’d hit the jackpot. Not only a dwelling in a hotel-like affair designed to cater to the elderly where someone else would buy the groceries, cook the meals, clean  the apartment, and take out the trash, but now a New Woman! 

He seems not to have thought through that bounty very thoroughly: within a few weeks he had proposed to said New Woman.

Mistake. As you can imagine:

* He was accustomed to living with my mother, who after some 30 years together knew him well and knew how to make him happy.

* He did not recognize the Wicked Witch of the West for what she was. Yes: a wicked witch.

Oh, my. You wanna talk horror show? Lemme tellya horror show! 

At one point I urged him to divorce the bit¢h. But he was having none o’ that: “She’ll get all my MONEY,” wailed he.

I was neither wise enough nor brave enough to say, in reply, “Daddy: some things are more important than money.” Wouldn’t have mattered: he would have ignored that bit of advice.

So he spent the rest of his life in misery, until he had a stroke that carried him away.

What a way to wrap up your life, eh?

Roaaaarrrrrrr!

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Gosh, what a…classically Arizona winter day. How strange, how weird, how…funny.

Coming on to 10:30 of an early November morning. Ruby and I go out front to oversee The Property. Yeah: get Gerardo to fix this. Get him to trim that. Admire the other plant. Loaf, loaf, and loaf…

The sky is deep gray, coated in thick, non-raining clouds. This makes for a strangely beautiful morning, hard to understand why. But one supposes “why” doesn’t matter, eh?

Off in the distance, a steady RROAARRRR rumbles up toward the ‘Hood from the southeast side. It’s the song of the the commercial airlines taking off and landing at Sky Harbor Airport.

Living closer to that place — where my stepsister’s house was, for example — would be even more annoying than living in Sun City, where one is blasted from dawn to dusk by jet fighters roaring in and out of Luke Air Force Base. Purely by accident, I happened to stumble into my present neighborhood: staidly middle-class, centrally located in spades, and far enough from the local noise-makers to be relatively quiet.

Seriously: I am so pleased with this house that I absolutely positively do NOT move out of here when I reach a stage of such decrepitude that I need a baby sitter.

And really: considering how much it costs to live in an old-folkerie (the place where my father retired took all the proceeds from the sale of a very nice suburban house, and then pretty much cleaned out his savings accounts), it does seem to me that rather than move into a retirement “home” (snort!!), you might be better off to hire staff to come in and care for you in your present, paid-off manse. Especially if you manage to die in a timely way.

Seriously — sorry, I realize Americans are scared of talking about Death, but do get over it! ‘Cause we ain’t a-gunna get away from it!

Just as seriously, it strikes me that with the roof over your head paid for, you could be better served by your own hired folks than you would be living in one of those old-folks’ prisons.

Luz — Cleaning Lady from Heaven — remarked at one point that she’d had a job like that.

So I’m gonna ask her who she worked for, what she did, and how much she got paid. Learn who to hire and where to find them when you reach the point where you really can’t care for yourself, reliably and safely. Then start looking around, talking with employers, and figuring out how to get such a person on the private payroll.

***

Ahhh, what a nice little neighborhood, indeed. The WonderAccountants — who live straight across the street from the Funny Farm — just installed a new set of exterior windows. They apparently called the same guys who installed mine several years ago, and it looks like they selected the same model of windows, or one very much like mine.

They put up classy wrought-iron fake shutters on either side of each window, far more sophisticated than anything I could dream up… And now the front of their house REALLY looks nice. They should be amply pleased with the result.

They say that double-paned windows save you a bundle on AC and heating bills. Couldn’t prove it by me: I’d say the monthly power bills are about the same as they were before I replaced my single-panes.

Still, a double-paned window would be a bit more hassle to break into, so that would up your security level. And a perp would have to make a fair amount of noise to cut or break out such a window, thereby alerting you in plenty of time to dodge out a back door and run off down the street.

***

{sigh} I love this neighborhood. I love the neighbors. And I love my house. GOT to find ways to stay here until I croak over.

The prospect of being locked up in one of those holding pens for old folks fills me with horror. Honestly, I would rather be dead. (No: I’m not contemplating suicide anytime soon, so please don’t panic.)

But y’know….life is short. We only have around 70 or 80 years in this sylvan vale. So why spend any part of it in misery, just because you’re getting on toward the end of the road? Locking up a person in a holding pen to await the end is forcing that person to spend the last part of her or his life in misery.

How, really, is that the right thing to do?

Would it not be better…would it not be morally preferable…to hire someone to come in to your home and care for you until you totter over into the grave? Or at least until you fully and permanently lose consciousness?

That’s no easy job — caring, not tottering, that is. My father worked like an animal caring for my mother in the last dreadful weeks of her tobacco-poisoned life. But…well…he did her a magnificent service.

I watched him die in the old-folkerie where he banished himself….and to tell you the truth, his best friend there did himself a favor when he took a pistol and blew out his own brains.

My father found the guy’s corpse.

What a horror! But…why not make it possible for a person who knows Death is on its way and knows insurmountable suffering will accompany it…why not make it possible to choose your own exit door?

*** *** *** 

Darkness has fallen
Dog has frolicked
Human is pooped

*** *** *** 

And here we are, once again, loafing in an easy chair by the breeze of an electric fan and the light of an elegant old electric lamp.

😀

What a day!!! One depressing thought after another. One depressing predicament to cope with after another.

Ohhhhh well.

Tomorrow’s another day. Uhm… I hope…